


Distraction

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex, completely consensual sex, fucking against a wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE, set after the 2012 Annual: Ratchet has downtime in the medibay for a change; Drift aims to change that. Shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> This was written for homosindisguise on Tumblr. 
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

"About what happened on Theophany — at Crystal City —"

"Drift, whatever it is, I don't have _time_ for it."

"You might want to make time, then." A heavy pause, and at last Ratchet set aside his multitool and glanced up from the fine-tuning of his new set of hands. Drift was propped in a casual lean against the entrance to the medibay, arms crossed, his oft-stoic expression exchanged for a disarming smile. "Ratchet, I'm apologizing."

Ratchet felt his frown of annoyance deepen. "For what?"

"You know — for pulling the sword on you. Threatening you. Being a real crankshaft." Drift took several steps forward, and soon his frame was fully immersed in the bright, sterile light of the medibay. "I shouldn't have done that."

The chief medical officer huffed, then abruptly stood from his workbench. "Kid, is this apology of yours about making amends with me, or is it to make _yourself_ feel better?"

Drift's smile didn't waver. "Can it be a little of both?"

"At least you're honest." Ratchet gave his hands another once-over, then said, "Will that be all?"

Drift's shoulders seemed to droop a fraction of an inch. "You seem eager to kick me out of here."

"Let's just say that quiet time in the medibay seems to come at a premium these days." It was true: from the very moment the _Lost Light_ had first begun its journey, things had gone awry. There were the unlucky individuals who had been sucked out of the breach in the ship's hull, and were still offline — the messy situation with the sparkeater — the repairs and rebuilding after Messatine — not to mention Fortress Maximus' PTSD-fueled rampage that ended on a decidedly horrible note.

Now, though, activity in the medibay was rather subdued, and tasks were especially more manageable now that First Aid and Ambulon were onboard to help. Rung's small, headless body still lay stretched out on a slab, frame hooked up to an array of beeping machines, and there was the ever-present handful of faders whose conditions had not improved — but for once, it wasn't hectic — it wasn't loud — and Ratchet could hear himself _think_.

Drift's presence, however, was making that difficult.

"I understand and appreciate the need for solitude," was the reply, at last — but much to Ratchet's dismay, Drift had moved even closer, and there was a certain playful edge to his voice that bothered Ratchet for all the wrong reasons.

"Good, then you'll understand my need for you to get the frag out of the medibay."

"Ratchet, I truly am fond of your warm, _welcoming_ nature. I could learn a lot from you." Their optics locked, and with those words, Drift clasped a hand on the medic's shoulder.

Ratchet felt his frown disappear, only to be replaced with a _look_ that he hoped didn't betray feelings that could not and _should not_ exist. He tore his gaze away from the other and grunted, "Let's take this to my office. _Now_."

Drift didn't argue.

The door whisked shut behind them, and damn it all, Drift's smile was as smug as ever. "I thought you said you didn't have _time._ "

"I do now," Ratchet grated, "and you'd better make it _worth_ it."

Drift sauntered toward the medic, unclipping the sheathed swords from his hips and setting the weapons on top of the already-cluttered desk. "You know, even _Rodimus_ keeps his office tidier than _this_."

A wry smile crossed Ratchet's lips. "You _would_ have intimate knowledge of his habits, wouldn't you?"

Another step nearer. "Ratchet, I'll never understand why you so enjoy attacking my person. It's okay, though — I forgive easily." And Drift was closer now, much closer, and there was a mischievous glint in his optics that was all too obvious, and his energy field — usually so well-controlled and contained — was starting to reach, hot and charged. "You know, I never _thanked_ you for saving my life — at Rodion, I mean." The words came out in a sultry purr, and the medic found himself becoming increasingly unhinged.

Still, Ratchet tried to ignore his now-skipping spark. "You were _falling apart_ and _bleeding out your optics_ on Messatine, and yet you _still_ managed to save my aft. I think that's a proper repayment."

"Perhaps," said Drift, the space between them ever-dwindling, "and perhaps not."

If they hadn't already been obvious, Drift's intentions were now more than clear. With a final huff of feigned discontent, Ratchet grumbled, "Are you sure about this, kid?"

A broad smile. "I'm sure about _everything_."

"Yeah, I've _noticed_ ," Ratchet hissed under the guise of an ex-vent. Drift either didn't hear, or, more likely, didn't care. And perhaps — Ratchet could begrudgingly admit this to himself — perhaps the ex-Decepticon's conviction was, in fact, an admirable trait. He and Drift locked proverbial horns on a regular basis, almost always over the prickly topic of religion, but perhaps there really _was_ something respectable about Drift's unwavering beliefs — even _if_ Ratchet considered them to be a load of rustwash.

A hand trailing down his chest armor interrupted any further thoughts. "Come _on_."

Ratchet stepped away from the touch, then dialed down the brightness of the overhead light panels. His office, usually bathed in the same harsh, sterile gleam as the medibay, darkened to an orangey glow; Drift's optics shone brighter than ever and Ratchet, damn it all, felt his frame quickly starting to warm. Wordlessly, he pushed Drift back, back — until the other's shoulders rattled against the far wall. The medic leaned forward, mouth ghosting against Drift's audial, lips working their way up a sharp-tipped finial. Instantly he felt the other's hands against him, and they moved over heated plating, fingers dipping into transformation seams. Ratchet grunted at the contact; he rolled his hips forward, pushing Drift further into the wall, armor creaking in strained protest.

Drift's fans roared to life, and it was an incredibly satisfying, thrilling sound. Their lips crushed into a sloppy, fervent kiss, glossae sliding against one another, mouths hot and sticky with conductive oral fluid. The ex-Decepticon moaned into it, hips bucking, fingers gripping tight against the medic's shoulders. Ratchet pressed forward again — Drift's frame was _searing_ , now — and he felt a thigh loop tightly around his waist. Pelvic housing, scalding with arousal, ground against his own, and Drift broke the kiss, only to hoarsely whisper " _Please._ "

Drift was usually stoic and collected, often frustratingly so — but this wanton display — his now-open port, leaking shimmering lubricant — the roll of his hips and heaving of his vents — the hitching of his intakes —

Ratchet lifted a hand from the wall, fingers scraping down abdominal plating, raking over the armor of a deliciously curvy thigh, trailing back upward to smear warm lubricant against the hot rim of Drift's clenching port. Without warning, Ratchet thrust two digits in — Drift's frame shuddered around him, thigh tightening around his waist, fingers digging into armor. The digits were withdrawn, then pushed back inside, deeper this time, and Ratchet felt the internal walls spasm and flutter. Drift arched against his ministrations, fans wailing, hips bucking. Another thrust of the medic's fingers, this time twisting and scissoring against pliable port walls — another gasped moan.

"Slow down, kid," Ratchet whispered, and he was taken aback by how gravelly his voice sounded. "Slow down and _enjoy_ this."

"W-What can I say? You've got talented — medic hands."

And _that_ was a near mood-killer. Quite abruptly, Ratchet withdrew his digits. "You know what? Let's try a different approach." With a soft _click_ , interface paneling slid aside, and Ratchet felt the heat of his own spike as it pressurized, trapped between their bodies. The medic gripped Drift's thigh _hard_ , raising his frame while simultaneously pushing him firmly against the wall, and then slowly lowered the other, until the tip of his spike pushed against the rim of that hot, wet port.

Drift keened with need. "Come — _come on_ , Ratchet."

That was all the encouragement Ratchet needed. In one swift movement, he slammed himself into Drift, reveling in the tight clench around his spike and the hoarse, ragged grunt that escaped the other's vocalizer. He withdrew, then thrust in again; Drift's frame pounded against the wall — his head lolled to the side — his fans screamed. Another thrust, and now Ratchet began to work himself into a rhythm, plunging himself in and dragging himself out of that scalding, dripping space. Drift's other foot left the floor, and soon the leg joined the other, wrapped tightly around Ratchet's waist.

The sudden shift in weight didn't bother Ratchet in the slightest. With a growl, he shoved Drift hard against the wall, fingers digging into thigh armor, feeling the warm metal dent beneath his grasp. Drift bucked his hips, starting a counter rhythm to Ratchet's thrusts, and the movement became easier, slicked with lubricant and transfluid. Calipers clamped along the length of the medic's spike, their hold slackening and tightening and _frag,_ despite his best efforts, Ratchet could not bite back the moan that escaped his lips.

Drift's grip on Ratchet's shoulders tensed; his optics were half-shuttered, their glow a dim, sultry cyan. "P-Primus, _yes_."

"Primus — has — _nothing_ — to do — with this!" Ratchet grated, each word punctuated by a particularly hard thrust. If Drift argued, Ratchet couldn't tell: the ex-Decepticon only moaned louder, the back of his helm smacking against the wall.

Their pace picked up to a blistering fervor; armor grinded and rasped, vents hissed, and Ratchet found himself becoming lost in a haze of lust and _need_. A new warmth came between them: Drift's spike stood at attention, gleaming with transfluid. The medic adjusted his weight, released one of Drift's thighs, then began to pump, timing the sliding of his hand with the thrusting of his hips. Digits dug into the armor of Ratchet's shoulders, and Drift howled, completely casting away any last remaining shreds of his usual stoic demeanor.

And Ratchet found _that_ to be _extremely_ arousing. He surged forward, crushing Drift into the wall, and again their lips met, swallowing one another's moans. Ratchet's hand worked faster, alternating between pumping the shaft and stroking the tip of the spike; Drift arched against the touch — the wail of his fans was deafening, now — and Ratchet thrust in _deep_ —

His optics offlining, Drift spiraled into overload first, limbs tightening around Ratchet like a vice, the calipers of his port rippling around the spike inside, his own spike spurting forth a fount of transfluid between them. Ratchet continued to plunge into the clenching space and _finally_ , with a rough snarl, he, too, hit overload. Charge washed over his frame — his spark skipped a pulse — and everything was hot and sticky and _wonderful_.

For a moment, neither Autobot moved — each was content to listen to the shuddering wail of overtaxed fans and the whirr of overheated circuitry. Drift onlined his optics at last, and his gaze bored into Ratchet — mouth slightly agape, panting, condensation trickling down the bridge of his nose. A sated smile finally pulled at his lips, and he murmured, " _Primus_."

Ratchet leaned forward, mouth pressed against the side of Drift's helm, and with a poorly-concealed grin, he whispered, "Get the frag out of my office."

"I don't — I don't think I will."

And Ratchet, for the first time, was okay with that.

* * *

_fin._

 

 

 

__

_  
__Bonus fanart by[homosindisguise](http://homosindisguise.tumblr.com)!_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :3


End file.
